Until Lambs Become Lions
by ImpossibleImpact
Summary: Steve Rogers is on the run with the scattered and struggling remains of HYDRA hot on his tail. The Avengers are scattered to the winds. So when HYDRA's elite come in for the kill, he's left with a gifted young lady who had tumbled out from the rubble of the Triskelion, and a sporadic shadow that's continually looming over him with an impeccable aim. They're his team at the moment.
1. Double Shot of Adams on Monday

**Double Shot of Adams on Monday**

* * *

 _"The highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive/ Everybody's out on the run tonight/ But there's not place to hide."_

 **-Bruce Springsteen "Born to Run"**

* * *

Nothing cut the sweltering heat and the mundane drive of a Monday afternoon like Frederic's Bar.

Nestled amongst the indefinite dry flat lands along Route 40, the 37 year old joint received its fair share of dust and truck drivers around mid-day, and it's regulars around happy hour. Still sporting its faded, neon sign and chipping outdoor paint, Frederic's only attracted the long runners who's families had rested and rehydrated there, and in consequence, them as well. Travelers and tourists either held out for the chain bars a 30 miles up the highway, or were lucky enough to have passed that unfortunately mundane stretch of dirt and rocks Frederic's ruled when the hot, Southern sun had barely peaked its head over the horizon. Because in the thick of July, when the Sun towered in the sky and burned water to air, sometimes nothing but the thick chill of alcohol could soothe the parched.

And this Monday was no exception.

At around 12, Frederic's tended to seat no more than 2 trailer trucks in the parking lot, and 5 people in the bar. Today, at 11:57 am, things were especially slow, the sticky, burning air helping the matter in no way. Leaning heavily against the worn wooden pillar beside the pool tables, grumbling to himself over a previous war, an aching knee and "this damn hell-like weather" was Karl Eden, an ex-Marine who now simply called his big rig and the open stretch of highway his battle grounds. Graced with a heavy, slowly whitening beard and a sagging ink-etching of Madonna on his right shoulder, Karl Eden was a man ripe in his mid years with muscles bulging beneath his company shirt that could still carry a soldier and a crate of produce effortlessly over his shoulders.

Along the counter sat Raul Santiago, an arm hovering over the recently cleaned wooden bar, aimlessly shaking around the remnants of PBR in his no longer frosted glass, now simply covered in sweat and condensation. Today had been an especially rough day for Raul, haven just returned from Franklin where he argued and screamed his way through another meeting with his former wife and her attorney, the current Home Depot manager fighting for partial custody of his 8 year old daughter, Louisa. Raul had become a regular after long night shifts at the store ever since his ex-wife had slammed the divorce papers on his work desk along with a 14k gold ring.

Behind the bar, humming sporadically to a Bryan Adams track playing on the sand-covered radio behind him, was Peter Handel. New to the South and new to town, Fred, the owner of the bar, was all too happy to hire the tall, eager 26 year old, the first of many applications before him that held no criminal records or other concerning documents. Bar attendees were lightly passing speculations of his origin, the young man keeping almost to himself with very small talk with customers, yet a master behind the bottles.

The small bell chime above the front entrance rang clearly through the thick, soupy atmosphere, heads slightly tilted in greeting as the strangers walked inside.

What registered first to Karl Eden was the resolute plod of footsteps across the sandy, well-worn floor boards. Though muffled by the spongy plastic of a running sneaker, the clear and crisp definition of the heels and toes immediately reminded the ex-Marine of long, dry nights on a small army base along the California coast, men of all ages banding together in a ritual drill of running formations. The large man lifted his head from the block of blue chalk in his fingers to habitually study the new comers.

He matched the even foot steps to the tall man, casually making his way to the counter. Evenly defined muscles bulged from the brown, leather jacket cage, broad shoulders just barely fitting within. A dark navy cap covered his head, Karl Eden quickly spotting the small patch of blonde hair the cap could not contain. And though the somewhat baggy jeans gave an air of casualness, the former soldier was not so easily fooled, quickly spotting the large size of his calf and thigh muscles through taut jeans as the stranger easily lifted himself onto a barstool. The muscled build, the steady footsteps; this wasn't a casual drinker or lost pedestrian, of that Karl Eden was sure. And the small form that had followed the larger man in only raised his suspicions even more. Perched nimbly along the faded green trim around the front window, stood the smallest, thinnest form Karl Eden ever believed he laid eyes on. Though at about 5 1/2 feet in stature, the young boy, Karl Eden was assuming, was cursed with the smallest frame, thin legs tucked underneath each other and thin arms crossed along his chest, making him appear even smaller beneath his large, red hoodie. What piqued the Marine's interest was the large baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, both of which nearly covered the young boy's entire face completely.

Much like him, the other, taller stranger at the bar was masterfully concealing themselves from the outside world, and his large, fingers grew white as he clutched the pool stick in his hand.

Raul Santiago barely lifted his head from his drink, as he continued to wallow in self pity. Peter Handel nodded in greeting to the large stranger, who suspiciously kept his head tilted down towards the counter, hat hiding his face from immediate view.

"Sam Adams, please," the voice spoke.

Clear as glass and strong as steel.

No matter how hushed the stranger kept his voice, Karl was a smart man.

A perceptive man.

And the tall, fit stranger that just walked into the bar was a soldier.

Plain and simple.

With voice as authoritative as that, Karl would even go as far to say that the gentleman was a commanding officer.

He had led people before.

Peter Handel gave a silent, affirmative nod, his hands bustling behind the counter, the stranger then turning to Raul Santiago to give a small nod of hello, the poor, dazed father to inebriated to give any vocal reply back.

Peter Handel was back within seconds, setting a tall, chilled bottle of beer in front of the stranger a top of a small cardboard coaster, advertising the bars summer-themed drinks. It was as the young bartender was releasing his warm grasp from the cold bottle, leaving pools of condensation in the form of a handprint along the glass, that the hulking stranger finally peered up from his overbearing cap. Handel first caught a glimpse of pitch black rims, followed by clear glass. The next thing he saw were piercing blue irises staring back at his, painting the age of a man not much younger than himself. And then, as the bartender zoomed out from the chilling azure eyes, taking in the features of the entire man's face, did his mouth slowly begin to drop. Even before the stranger had opened his mouth to deal the final blow.

"The eagle has flown with sparrows still in the nest," he noted, crystal clear voice piercing the thick, soupy air.

And with Raul Santiago still entranced with the frothy remains of his drink melting at the bottom of his mug, and Karl Eden warily watching the thin form by the window, looking with reminiscing eyes down at his own, bulging form, remembering his fit, football days, no one noticed Peter Handel's eyes widen with utter surprise. His mouth go completely slack jaw. His arms fall limp with astonishment by his side.

And then, in the span of a mere few seconds, his body went into a mode all of the bar's customers could honestly say they had never seen the young Handler posses. His wide eyes became stern and focused, mouth twisting in a straight line, as he peered quickly over at his only two customers, mind in overdrive as he quickly assessed the situation played out before him. Another glance was made to the rear door, seeing the lock was still in place, then glanced over at the front.

He turned once again the Raul Santiago and Karl Eden and with a body straight and poised and a voice strong and clear he called out "I need the bar. I need you to leave."

While Raul barely lifted his head at the sound of the bartender's voice, Karl went immediately rigidly, staring defiantly at the two strangers before glancing up at the bartender. It was then that a mutual relationship between drinker and bartender was formed, Karl looking on at the young man with eyes full of question, yet full of certainty that if anything were to go south, it would be swiftly dealt with.

No questions asked.

But with a silent shake of his head and a small purse of his mouth, Peter Handel reassured his customer that no violence was needed.

That there was simply business he needed to attend to.

With suspicious eyes trained on the newcomers, Karl Eden slowly laid his pool stick down across the table and grabbed his bear as he made his way to the door and out into the hot afternoon. Raul Santiago seemed to give a heavy, soupy sigh before he too lifted himself with the greatest difficulty from his barstool, stumbling across the floor with sloppy footsteps to the door and out, the three occupants listening carefully as the bell chimed a farewell to the last customer.

The large man at the bar turned his head slightly to his right. "The blinds," he stated.

And the slack, lackadaisical form stretched along the cool steel radiators suddenly snapped straight to full height, reaching fluidly behind her to lower the blinds before walking over to the other window and doing the same.

Just as the final blind had been pulled down, Peter Handel turned to the stranger, eyes hard and focused. "Are the wolves tracking your scent?" he asked.

The stranger nodded. "We can't shake them," the stranger responded.

The bartender simply nodded, before gesturing gently above him with a tilt of his head, the stranger following with his eyes still below the cap to a large security camera nestled between two worn decorative license plates. "Neither can we. They can't take the cold, though," the bartender replied, gesturing vaguely with his shoulder to his left, the tall stranger barely peering out from his glasses to the small hallway parallel to the bar, a steel door at the end of it reading FREEZER. "Wimpy bastards," he commented.

There was a small, upward corner turn of his mouth in a smirk before the stranger gave a slight nod to Peter Handel and made his way casually towards the hallway, the young bartender almost startling as the previously silent and almost invisible small form by the windows got up and closely followed behind him.

Peter Handel waited until he could hear the open and shut of the thick, steel door of the freezer before slipping back from the security camera's view of the front main stretch of the bar and making his way back to the freezer as well. Just as he opened the door, letting a wave of refreshing icy cold breath hit him, he reached over to the cooler's thermostat and smoothly dialed it up to a red, faded sticker of a flame, before slipping inside with the two strangers.

"I've turned the heat up so its a little more bearable in here for the time being. We'll have about 10 minutes before we'll hear a little warning alarm," Peter Handel instructed.

He peered up and watched mesmerized as the tall man slipped his glasses and hat off, Peter Handel grunting and shaking his head with amusement as he stared back at the face of none other than the patriotic, American hero himself.

"Captain Rogers, I don't know how you do it sometimes, sir," Peter Handel chuckled with admiration, sticking his hand out to firmly shake that of the Avenger's. "I thought Fury had made my location classified."

Steve Rogers gave a small smile, finally releasing his strong grip on the former S.H.I.E.L.D agent's hand before sticking it back in his warm jacket pocket. "Well, a lot of things became unclassified after the Triscellion attack," the Avenger replied.

The bartender took on a grave face. "Have I been compromised?" he asked steadily.

Captain America closed his eyes and shook his head fiercely. "No. You and the others were on Fury's personal files. No one got to them. Only Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff and I know of your locations," he responded.

Peter Handel nodded multiple times in understanding, before smirking slightly. "I haven't had a S.H.I.E.L.D agent pit stop at my bars in years," he replied.

There was a small shrug of the Brooklyn native's shoulders. "We haven't had an incident like _this_ in years," he replied.

Peter Handel nodded. "Good point," he replied.

He peered up at the Super Soldier. "So, what can I do for you, Captain Rogers," he replied.

"After the helicarriers crashed down in the Potomac, I had been recovering at Jefferson Hospital for about 32 hours before I caught whiff of Hydra slinking around the halls. I high-tailed it out of there, but they rode my tail till New Jersey where I sent them on a dead-end lead. It won't be long before they find me again. I've been on the road for 84 hours and I'm running low on supplies," he began. "Stark had a top-secret bunker for the Avengers in Georgia, but Hydra must've gotten to it first, because it's now just a pile of ashes."

"So you're looking for a Resource Depot," Peter stated. "Anything in particular you need?"

A small shrug of the Super Soldier's left shoulder. "The basics. Food, water, cash, first aid supplies, survival gear, transportation. Nothing fancy. No tech either. Hydra's got their hands on almost every frequency. It'll only be a matter of time before they hack into our secure ones," he explained.

Peter Handel peered cautiously down at the small form, still standing with impeccable stillness beside the large, hulking form of the Super Soldier. "You know I can't divulge coordinates with unclassified personnel," he answered, gesturing vaguely with his chin to the small shadow of a person beside the Captain, still deathly quiet.

"Override. Protocol 400872. She's a gifted civilian I ran into in New York. She's clear," Captain Rogers replied. Peter Handel's head turned slightly in question at the word _she,_ turning to the small form as they lifted the cap and sunglasses from their head, hoodie falling back to reveal the slender, pristine face of a young lady with a dark brown pixie cut, brilliant yellow eyes staring back at him.

She gave him a small nod in acknowledgement, the S.H.I.E.L.D agent nodding in return with a tight smile, before turning back up to the Avenger.

"The closest one is about 40 miless from here. Just right outside of Kirby, along the older outskirts," he explained, pulling a small yellow notepad form his front apron pocket and scribbling down something quick with a green fountain pen from behind his ear. He passed the small sheet of paper to the Super Soldier, who pocketed with a small nod.

"It hasn't been accessed ever since its been restocked back in '05, so you should find everything you need," Peter Handel explained further.

A brief spell of silence passed over the freezer. "If you don't mind me asking, sir, where are you headed?" Peter Handel asked.

"I was working with a classified operative in New York during the Hydra invasion. When I caught wind of Hydra asking around for me back at the hospital, I sent him to Idaho before booking it out of there myself. We're planning to regroup, and then going from there," Captain Rogers explained.

The bartender gave a firm single nod of his head with a large smile on his face before extended a hand to the Super Soldier. "Well, best of luck to yah, Captain Rogers," he replied.

Steve Rogers firmly shook it in return. "Thank you, Agent Handel. And to you as well," he replied, watching as the bartender had already begun to open the freezer door and reset the thermostat.

The young agent gave the two a big wink before making his way back down the hallway, whistling clearly along with Bryan Adam's. Without another word, the Super Soldier slipped out of the freezer, waiting for the young girl to make her way out before locking it shut behind her. The two slinked like shadows down a right-hand hallway, slipping theirs hats and glasses back over their faces and silently out a back door, just as Peter Handel opened the front, letting his two patient customers back inside to the cool air conditioning.

The two almost reeled in the intense heat of the summer sun, their skin still soothed by the chill of the freezer, the Super Soldier making his way over to an idle Harley Davidson Fat Boy Lo.

Taking a quick peak beneath the leather seat, the seasoned solider catching a quick glimpse of a metallic red gleaming back at him before closing the seat pad back up. He swung himself over the bike, waiting to feel the heat of the young girl's body against his as she shifted into position before revving the bike, slowly easing it our of the dirt parking lot, the two strangers disappearing onto the sweltering highway once more.


	2. Dying For Cash On Tuesday

"I'm just a traveller on this Earth. Sure as my heart's behind the pocket of my shirt. I'll just keep rollin' 'till I'm in the dirt."

-Chris Stapleton

* * *

She didn't know where they were.

Her eyes had been closed for the past couple of hours.

 _/So I wantcha to close your eyes/ Sing to the world tonight/_

 _/So close your eyes/ You can close your eyes, it's all right/_

The eyelids weren't taut, but closed gently enough that some of the overhead sun leaked through and cast some light through the darkened world behind them.

Imagine that.

Sun.

She had almost entirely forgotten the word.

Sun.

 _/Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here/ Here comes the sun/ Here comes the sun, and I say/ It's all right/_

Sun

 _/I'm walking on sunshine, wooah/ And don't it feel good!/_

She had _entirely_ forgotten the feeling.

Her skin felt so warm, like she was swimming through fire, but she would never burn.

 _/Cause we got the fire, fire, fire, yeah we got the fire, fire, fire/ And we gonna let it burn, burn, burn/_

The air was alive around her.

 _/The hills are alive with the sound of music/ With songs they have sung for a thousand years/_

It had never felt alive before.

Before it was dead, heavy with strong smells and chemicals.

It wasn't like the lights on the ceiling.

Nothing could come close.

She should open her eyes again.

Imagine; her eyes squinting because it was too bright.

 _/Cause now I'm shining bright, so bright/ Bright, so bright/_

She couldn't believe it.

The sun was too bright.

Even if it hurt and stung and ache, she had missed it.

Cried for it for so long.

And there it was, just sitting up there in the sky.

 _/All that I dreamed had been untrue/ Open my eyes/ I see sky/_

Like it had never left.

Like it was just waiting for her to escape.

For her to be free.

 _/I sing for love, I sing for me/ I shout it out like bird set free/_

But she was scared.

Scared to see her surroundings.

She didn't want to see the landscape.

It was too much.

 _/Baby you're too much, much to handle/ Understand it when we turn it up/ Too much, much to handle/_

Too different.

 _/What makes you different (alright) makes you beautiful (alright)/ What's there inside you, (alright) shines through to me/_

Too much different to take in all at once.

The rocks, the mountains, the sand, the road.

 _/Listen baby, ain't no mountain high/ ain't no valley low, ain't no river wide enough baby/_

The things she had never seen before and didn't know the names of.

 _/And I'm ready to know what the people know/ Ask 'em my questions/ And get some answers/ What's a fire and why does it-what's the word?/ Burn?/_

It was too frightening for her to deal with.

They made her stomach feel so heavy yet her head so light.

Her stomach was a boulder and her mind was a feather, pulling her soul in between in two different directions.

It made her fingers shake and her sweat even stickier.

And he was there too.

 _/For all those time you stood by me/ For all the truth you made me see/_

She didn't know how'd he'd look at her if she _did_ take it all in at once.

To see her cry and blubber and sob over something he sees every day.

Every minute.

 _/Five hundred twenty-five thousand minutes/ Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear/_

To see her melt over air he could always breathe.

Dirt he could always feel.

Ground he could always walk on.

He would laugh.

Laugh at her tears of happiness, of joy, of sorrow, of loneliness…

Tears of everything.

 _/Tears on the ground, tears on my pillow/ You won't bring me down/_

Would he leave her?

 _/If you leave her/ I'll leave him/ We'll pack our bags/ Don't say a word/_

She didn't want him to leave.

That, she at least, knew for sure.

The only clear thought in her mind.

She didn't know what she would do without him.

She wouldn't survive.

 _/Oh no, not I, I will survive/ Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive/_

So then it was settled.

No crying.

No getting emotional.

It would have to wait.

She needed him.

 _/And I don't know how I can do without/ I just need you now/_

The hot sun beat down on them as they continued further, building pools and pools of warm, sticky sweat along very inch of her skin, making every movement feel wet and restricted, like trying to swim against a tide of molasses.

But in the shade of his large backside, she found the large, trickling beads along her back immediately cool down, and she found herself shivering, hairs along her spine standing on end.

She would give anything in that moment to switch places with him…

…to bask in the warmth radiating out across the air like waves, and let it pass over her for hours and hours and hours.

Or what about the wind that scratched against her skin, pulled at her clothes and pounded in her ear?

How long had it been?

Or even fresh air?

How good it felt; how fresh.

It felt heavier than the air before, as if it carried the full weight of every word, every sound that sliced through it.

She squeezed tighter, her arms looped around his strong, immovable waist.

It was all too much.

She couldn't think about it.

Not all at once.

She needed to breathe…

…just breathe.

 _/I can feel you breath/ Washing over me/ And suddenly I'm melting into you/_

But her heart got faster.

She was dreading something.

But what?

They were safe.

 _/Together in the weather/ Shiny on the other side/ Polished and changed for the better/ With you I'm safe/ With you I'm safe/_

Weren't they?

She wasn't before.

She wasn't safe in _there_.

Something impossibly heavy dropped so loudly in the pit of her stomach.

He probably heard it.

She only felt like this on those days.

Those SETA days.

 _Subject Experimental Testing Analysis._

No.

 _Subject Experiment Testing Analysis. Subject Trion 15-_

No.

 _Subject Trion 15 is responding well to stimuli-_

NO.

She scrunched her eyelids together as hard as she could, hoping that the memories just came with the sunlight.

If she blocked out the sun, she could block out those thoughts.

 _Trion 15 will be the first testing subject to undergo the newly constructed-_

Stop.

 _If the subject does not survive the first 3 trials, we will be forced to find another-_

Stop.

 _We do not have the resources to find another test subject with Trion 15's conditions. We will force her to survive._

Please, stop.

Suddenly something yanked her hard from the chaos inside her head, and she jumped.

There was a sudden wet warmth that had settled over her left wrist, clutching tight at the front of his waist.

It was gentle, the sweat from five distinct impressions just barely mingling with hers.

It was firm, holding her grip in place as if she couldn't herself.

A crutch if it ever fell.

It was so solid against hers, letting her know that hers was trembling.

That her nails in her other hand were clawing at his soft, cotton shirt.

How did that happen?

The hand slowly gave with the shaking motion of hers, but yet it remained casted around hers.

Keeping it still.

 _/I tell them/ I still/ He still/ We still/_

Holding it steady.

He had put his hand on her arm.

Why?

 _/You put your arms around me and I'm home/_

Is that why?

He didn't know her.

She didn't know him.

But…

…

…was this something people did…

…out here?

Held each other.

 _/When the days get short and the nights get a little bit colder/ We hold each other/_

Maybe this was something everyone did to everyone.

Friend or stranger.

She had been out…

…or rather _in_ for so long.

She forgot so much.

Remembered so little.

Maybe this was something.

Something you just…

did.

She couldn't remember.

Everything…

Everything up there.

Behind her eyes and above her neck.

That whole space.

It was sharp and fuzzy and warm and cold all at the same time.

Everything now.

Escaping and then…

…this.

That all felt sharp and cold.

Keeping her awake.

Keeping her engaged.

Keeping her guessing.

Wondering.

Questioning.

Questioning everything that was.

And everything that could be.

But then everything that was…

…everything before the lab…

…that was warm and fuzzy.

It floated and puddled and slipped and slimed and wouldn't stay still for her to look at it long enough.

Nothing was clear.

If she tried hard enough…

…thought hard enough…

…sometimes she could catch a glimpse.

A word.

A definition.

A voice.

A sound.

Maybe even a picture, if she was lucky.

But not a lot.

But his hand.

His big, warm, sticky hand on her wrist…

…it did something weird to the warm and fuzzy in her head.

…

It pulled it closer.

Just a little.

Settled it a little.

Added some weight so it wouldn't float too far.

Maybe, one day, she'd be able to see it all.

Everything before the lab she had forgotten.

Maybe…

…he would be the one to help her remember.

 _/We won't be sad, we'll be glad/ For all the life we've had/ And we'll remember when/_

With his sweaty hand and icy eyes.

Yep.

No getting emotional.

No crying.

She needed him.

Now more than ever.

* * *

She slowly slipped off the leather seat and followed closely beside him.

Keeping close.

Could she loose him?

What if she got lost?

 _/Why am I losing sleep?/ Yeah, feeling like I do/ Why am I losing you?/ And I'm feeling lost/_

She forgot how big it was out here.

There were several loading compartments in front of them.

A dull blue or green.

But they were old.

They were faded.

 _/Where are you now?/ Another dream?/ the monster's running wild inside of me/ I'm faded/_

The two waded through the tall grass.

He peered down again at the now smudged and crinkled post-it note.

 _Crinkle._

 _Crinkle._

She liked the sound.

Paper.

 _Loading cart 67OP_.

He looked back up before him, stopping before a crate.

It was tilted slightly on its left side, a large mound of dirt rising off to its left.

On the left door, in chipped black paint read 67OP.

He turned slightly around to her and gave her a thumbs up.

Something about it…

…the two thumbs…

…felt familiar.

Ran like ice water along the side of her head.

But she pushed it away.

Shook her head free.

Focus.

 _/Focus on me, f-f-focus on me/_

 _Get in, get out._

That's what he said.

That they weren't safe.

Out in the open.

 _Get in, get out._

Get only what we need.

 _Get in, get out._

With a slight tug, the rusted, noisy latch was slid aside, and he wrenched the doors open.

Hot air from inside hit her hard.

It smelled too.

Of what, she didn't know.

She'd never smelt it before.

Or couldn't remember the smell.

He lifted himself easily up into the dark loading cart.

His boots thudded and made the metal ring.

He turned around and held a hand out to her.

She looked at it for a few seconds.

 _Hands._

He used them a lot.

He used them a lot with her.

He placed one on her back when they were walking and he was in a hurry.

He placed one on her shoulder when her stomach had grumbled really loudly.

He had put one in her hand when they had first met.

Hands.

All the time.

 _They_ had never touched her like he did.

He had really big hands.

Bigger than theirs.

But his were so gentle.

Sometimes she stared at them.

When she felt lost, wishing she was small enough to fit in it and sleep there forever.

She looked down at it again.

At his waiting hand.

What was she supposed to do with it?

Hit it?

Slap it?

Hold it?

Silence.

She looked up at him again.

Something changed in his eyes.

For a second, he wasn't in a rush anymore.

He wasn't thinking.

He wasn't trying to figure things out.

He wasn't in his head.

His eyes were softer.

"Let me help you up. It's big step."

Oh.

That's what he wanted to do.

Help her up.

She studied his hand again.

Memorized the way it was facing up to the sky but slightly tilted.

Memorized the way his fingers were straight but smooth.

Stored in her head for next time.

She slipped her hand into his.

His hand formed around hers and suddenly there was no ground under her.

Her shoes clanged on the metal like his.

He was strong.

 _/And then all that you've got left is being strong/ Gotta find a little faith to fall back on/_

She suddenly heard a sharp click, and the space inside lit up.

The inside was dusty.

Neat.

But dusty.

There were shelves all over the walls.

Boxes beneath them.

Large things covered in blankets in the back.

Two looked about the size of his motorcycle.

She turned to him as he gave a low hum.

"Little old school for SHIELD."

He crouched down, scanning over the lowest shelving.

He grabbed two black back packs from an open metal bin labeled BAGS.

He looked up at her, the corner of his mouth turning upward ever so slightly.

It crinkled at the edges, as he slowly pulled himself up from the ground.

"Sorry. No other colors."

 _/You can own the Earth and still/ All you'll own is Earth until/ You can paint with al the colors of the wind/_

There was something light and airy to his voice.

Not like when he voiced observations or told her to do something.

A joke?

Was he trying to be funny?

He did that sometimes.

Usually out of nowhere.

He'd be serious.

And tall.

And big and strong.

And then he'd say something like that.

His voice was softer.

And he looked so much smaller.

It scared her.

He looked younger every time.

Like he could be as young as her.

Maybe he was.

She didn't ask how old he was.

Should she ask?

No.

That'd be weird.

He'd think she was weird.

Remember.

You need him.

Don't scare him off.

He dropped the back packs on the top of the table and zipped them open.

She watched as he first grabbed two large, see-through boxes and two even bigger red bags from a large crate off to his right labeled

FIRST AID.

Then two cylinder cases from the

GOOD KNIVES bin

and a handful of black wrapped objects from the

CHEAP KNIVES bin.

Then came objects from bins labeled

COMPASS

DRIED FRUIT

NUTS

POWDER EGGS

ROPE

WATER BOTTLES

SUNGLASSES

SUNSCREEN

ALCOHOL (NOT THE DRINKING KIND)

BINOCULARS

TRASH BAGS

BLANKETS

ALOE

FAKE ID KITS

PASSPORT KITS

LISCENCE KITS

WATERPROOF CASES

PONCHOS

CHAPSTICK

MINTS

TOOTHBRUSH

TOOTHPASTE

SHOWER PRODUCTS

DEODERANT

WALKIE TALKIES

CELLPHONES (INSTRUCTIONS INSIDE)

and two pouches from the

FOR A RAINY DAY bin.

He was leaning over more of the table to the further set items, eyes catching a

MISCELLANIOUS bin.

He reached over and slid it across the table closer to him.

But he stopped.

And turned back to the empty spot.

She watched as something lit up in his eyes.

They widened.

And for the first time since she had bumped into him, a smile covering both sides of his lips.

 _/Remember you're never fully dressed/ Without a smile/_

He often lifted one side or the other in a smile.

But this was a full-fledged grin.

He chuckled a

"Barton,"

and shook his head before turning back to filling the backpacks.

She glanced at him first, making sure he wasn't watching her before she carried herself up on her tip toes and side-glanced over.

In large writing, scratched cleanly into the metal table was

HAWKEYE WAS HERE

followed closely below in the same handwriting by

AND SO WAS THE SCARY BLACK WIDOW.

Did he know HAKWEYE and BLACK WIDOW?

What about 'Barton'?

Were they friends?

Were they like him?

Maybe they could help.

 _/Help me, get my feet back on the ground/ Won't you please, please help me/_

Help with…

with whatever they were doing.

He kept saying that they were meeting someone named Sam.

That what they were doing now…

the driving all day

sleeping all night in places where rooms could be bought for a few hours

was what he had been doing with this Sam.

For some reason, she felt Sam was better at doing this than she was.

Riding with him for days.

He was probably used to other people

the Sun

the pavement

the heat

the mountains

the ocean

just like he was.

He didn't stare at them like she sometimes did, usually missing something he was telling her.

Sam was probably helpful.

Sam was probably clued in.

Sam probably knew what was going on.

All things she wasn't.

She hadn't met Sam at all.

And he hadn't said much about Sam either.

But right now, she really wanted him here.

To help.

But what she wanted most was a buffer.

Someone that could stand between her and him.

Someone that could keep him from looking at her with those big, icy eyes.

Like he was now.

Eyes that wanted to ask so many questions, which she could not answer, and give so many hugs, which she didn't think she needed right now.

Not from him anyway.

There were people she wanted to hug.

Very badly.

But she couldn't.

Not anymore.

Not ever.

Not-…

Something tickled the heel of her foot.

She lifted it quick and stared at the bottom.

Nothing.

Just dirt.

 _/Makes you wanna build/ A 10 percent down/ White picket fence house on this dirt/_

She wiggled her foot, then her toes, then put her foot back down.

She jumped in her skin as it happened again.

It pushed like a brick against her heel.

She looked down again at her feet.

Nothing.

Lifted her foot out from her shoe.

Nothing.

And then there it was again.

And again.

And again.

It was like there was no sneaker, no sock, no skin left on her feet.

It was just bare, red muscle on flat wood and there was a speaker on the ground, blaring music.

 _Thump._

 _Thump._

 _Thump._

The base thumping and patting and rattling and pounding on the ground.

Thumping and patting and rattling and pounding along her feet.

But where was the speaker?

Was it a speaker?

Was someone else there?

She relaxed and let it hit her feet again.

 _Boom._

Now it hit like a wave, sprinkling up the side of her legs, along her stomach, and beating her heart.

 _Boom._

 _Boom._

Right at the heels again.

So…

…behind her?

She turned around, squinting her eyes at the bright sunlight.

"Hey, everything ok?"

She ignored him as the invisible push was now banging along her toes like little feet.

She listened to the dry grass crackle and crunch beneath her as she jumped down from the unit.

And then it hit her again.

 _THUD._

 _THUD._

But it was harder.

More powerful.

More distinct too.

Sharper.

And…louder?

But how?

She couldn't hear it?

But it somehow felt…

louder.

Maybe…

maybe her feet could hear it?

Yeah.

Right.

 _Ok._

So…louder.

But why?

What if it was like a speaker?

If it was…

louder…

than it meant she was closer to it.

She looked around.

More units.

More trees.

More hills.

More dirt.

More dry grass.

More…nothing.

It wasn't close.

But…wait.

It was getting closer.

The force was stronger now, the hitting against her toes closer together.

And…louder, sure.

Louder.

"What's going on? Are you—"

She raised a finger behind her and he took the hint.

Silence.

Except for her feet.

Which were…

hearing…

something.

She could hear his jacket crinkle, like he was twisting around.

"Is someone coming?"

No.

Not someone.

The noise was too loud, too big, too heavy.

Maybe someone big.

She turned back to look at him.

The sun was behind him, outlining his body.

He looked…

confused.

Why?

Could he not feel this?

How could he not feel this?

It was like the whole ground was shaking.

How could he not feel this?

Or hear it?

Or whatever was happening.

Why was it just her?

Suddenly, like a flipped switched, his face changed.

His eyes were squinty, like he didn't know what was going on.

His mouth was kind of pinched at the corners like he didn't know what to say.

Now, his eyes were wide.

Now, his mouth was wide.

He was suddenly beside her.

His head was tilted, ear towards the sky, eyes looking at her shoulder.

But not _really_ looking at her shoulder.

They just kind of fell there.

Then, suddenly, his eyes and mouth got really wide, wider than she'd thought they'd get.

"Dammit."

And suddenly he was moving, away from her side and towards his bike, both back packs slung over one shoulder.

He flipped the seat over and stuffed the bags down into it.

"We gotta move. Now."

Ok.

Move away from the sound.

Made sense.

She ran over to him, the thumping now even louder, connecting hard with her feet every time they connected with the ground.

She watched as he pushed the bags aside and pulled out his Frisbee.

That's what she called it.

In her mind.

Not aloud.

Remember.

Can't be weird.

She needs him.

She really didn't know what else to call it.

It probably wasn't a Frisbee.

At least…

Her Frisbees had never looked like that.

Unless the world had changed that much while she was gone.

Frisbees in her mind were pink ad glittery.

She didn't know why.

But they were.

It had taken her 15 hours to finally find the word 'frisbee' in her muddled mind.

And when it did, all her mind could see was pink and glitter.

That was in the warm and fuzzy part of her head.

It was definitely metal.

It shined in the sun.

There was an outer red ring, a silver red ring, an inner red ring and then a blue circle with a white star in the middle.

He flipped it over and changed the two inside leather straps.

Really quickly, too.

Like he did it a lot.

He slipped one arm through one loop and one arm through the other so the Frisbee sat on his back.

Like…

…there was a…show, wasn't there?

On…what did he call it again?

Oh.

Yeah.

TV.

With…

an animal?

Yes.

An animal.

She remembered a fuzzy rug, warm cocoa and cookies, and green walking animals on a screen.

That was in the warm and fuzzy part of her head, too.

That's all she could remember.

She knew the animal had a name.

And he wore something too.

"You're gonna sit in front of me, ok?"

He was already sitting on the bike now, patting the seat for her to follow.

She did.

She slipped onto the warm seat, feeling the sweat already return as he leaned into her.

He was always so hot.

"Now just hold onto the handles, ok? Don't worry about steering. Just leave that to me."

Ok.

Simple enough.

Just hold on.

She wasn't worried.

Why wasn't she scared?

Should she be worried that she wasn't worried?

And why was he wearing the Frisbee on his back?

He had kept it in his bike this whole time.

She wouldn't have known it was there if she hadn't peeked while he was buying gas at a station with a big red sign with a yellow duck on it.

Why did they need it?

Was there going to be a fight?

Would they get hurt?

What if they died?

Died because they need money from a dirty unit.

 _/For you I know I'd even try to turn the tide. Because you're mine, I walk the line/_

No.

Wrong cash.

But back to the Frisbee.

What was it going to do?

Could it…

could it be thrown like a Frisbee?

No.

That'd look stupid.

And it was so…

big.

Someone couldn't just…

throw it.

But he was big too.

He could do it.

Maybe it was…loaded.

Armed.

She crossed her fingers.

His arms were now around her, holding tightly to the outside edges of the motorcycle handlebars, the bike now spurring to life, the seat beneath her rumbling with energy.

She slipped her fingers right beside his, hands barely gripping the handles as the bike lurched forward.

A plume of dust kicked up behind them.

And they were off.

Back on the road.

Running away.

Again.

And she couldn't help but think…

this was her life now.

Running from everything.

 _/Now I can't seem to breathe right/ 'Cause I keep runnin' runnin' runnin' runnin'/_

Before, in another lifetime, she was forced to deal with it.

She couldn't run.

She couldn't escape.

Now that she had, she was free.

 _/Free from all worries/ Worries prey on oneself's troubled mind/ Freer that the clock's hands/ Tickin' way the times/_

But always running.

In that moment, she didn't know which was worse.

 _/I don't steal and I don't lie/ But I can feel and I can cry/ A fact I'll bet you never knew/ But to cry in front of you/ That's the worst thing I could do/_

* * *

 ** _Songs Mentioned in Story_**

Close Your Eyes: Meghan Trainor

You Can Close Your Eyes: James Taylor

The Beatles: Here Comes the Sun

Katrina and the Waves: Walking on Sunshine

Burn: Ellie Goulding

Bright: Echosmith

Joshua Radin: Sky

Sia: Bird Set Free

Too Much: Zendaya

What Makes You Different (Makes You Beautiful): Backstreet Boys

Ain't No Mountatin High Enough : Marvin Gaye ft. Tami Terrell

Because You Loved Me: Celine Dion

RENT: 525,000 minutes

Clean Bandit: Tears

Destiny's Child: If You Leave

Gloria Gaynor: I Will Survive

Lady Antebellum: Need You Now

Faith Hill: Breathe

Tamia: Still

Christina Perri: Arms

A Great Big World: Hold Each Other

Alan Jackson: Remember When

The Calling: Lost

Ariana Grande: Focus

Pocahontas: Colors of the Wind

Annie: Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile

Beatles: Help

Johnny Cash: Walk The Line

Florida Georgia Line: Dirt

Adam Lambert: Runnin'

Stevie Wonder: Free

Grease: There Are Worse Things


	3. A Pair of Rascals On A Highway

The cool early December afternoon had sewn its sharp breeze intricately into the rubber treads of their tires, the pumping of brakes on the ice-sprinkled asphalt ringing a pitch higher in the super soldier's ears.

Doors opened and heavy-clad boots hit the ground, upright bodies lined with thick gear and large artillery, loose triggers chiming with the impact.

He heaved himself up into a sitting position, bruised and battered body parts calling out in protest.

He turned his head to face her, keeping his ear to the overturned car they were hiding behind, caught in the blast of HYDRA's compact missile that had sent the Chevy tumbling, and himself and the young lady flying from off his bike, now a pile of scorched metal along the on ramp.

His eyes caught her feet suddenly twitching, the soles pressed hard to the ground below, her back against the dented passenger door.

She was doing it again.

Her focus was distant, chin tipped to the side with curiosity.

Like back at the supply depot.

He was no expert on the range of abilities, mutations and powers gifted people such as herself were able to host these days, encountering almost none during his missions with SHIELD or his team.

But the way her sneakers twitched and slid across the pavement, her body sometimes jumping in slight surprise, added to the fact she was able to pick up on the roaming HYDRA convoy before the rattle of its engine ever hit his ears—

…maybe she could…sense vibrations?

In her feet?

From the ground?

Was that a thing?

"Come on, Cap."

Jenkins.

A strategist on SHIELD's strike team, with Rumalow.

Correction: _HYDRA's_ strike team.

And Rumalow was dead.

He presumed.

Or at least Sam did.

"There's a lot a' cars, a lot a' people out here. So how 'bout we make this short and sweet. No one needs to get hurt."

It was a subtle threat, masked underneath simple observations.

But it brutally drove home its point.

The pile up of cars meters behind the convoy, blaring horns and screaming at them to move.

The crowds collecting along the bridge up ahead, pointing and shouting at the young blond and brunette camping out behind a flipped Chevy, the driver out cold by the weigh station Steve had dragged him to.

The highway was crawling with hundreds of unsuspecting, innocent citizens, too occupied on the spectacle before them to spot the well-hidden weapons on the kill squad HYDRA sent in, still operating under the chaos and confusion of a crumbing SHIELD long enough to finally kill off the thorn stuck in their side since day one.

His death would be worth their blown cover, their element of surprise until the full extent of the Insight project and the Triskelion in the Potomac hit the internet.

The authorities were no doubt already contacted, giving himself and the young lady beside him just about 15 minutes, tops, to take down the group behind the Chevy and restrain them enough for the police's safe and easy transport.

But as he tiredly leaned his head back against the dented door of the Equinox, releasing his breath in tandem with the rush of the tactician's strategies and countermeasures churning across his mind, he reminded himself that he had no idea what she could do.

So the foot, sensing-thing was a possibility.

Even if it was a thing, he couldn't think of many ways that could stop a bullet or incapacitate a trained HYDRA soldier.

And there were the weird, glowing blue lines that periodically appeared in her skin. The ones that looked like the markings of a blueprint of some sort.

Again, the possibilities of its usefulness in battle were falling short.

It's not like he could ask her either.

She hadn't spoken a word since he had grabbed her from the rubble, thrown her onto the back of his motorcycle, and sped out of the nation's capital.

All of his questions, inquiries and statements went unanswered, eyes widening to convey something, but mouth never opening.

There must be something she could do; there had to be.

She wouldn't have been crawling out of the rubble of the Triskelion, grey shirt and pants scorched and torn, with the remains of the Strike team hot on her tail, if she hadn't been of some importance to SHIELD.

Or HYDRA.

She had been on the premises for a reason.

Though his still churning mind snarled at the impossibility of that, that Fury would've informed him of his assembly of another superhuman taskforce, the tactician took a few seconds, from gauging the distance from their position to the bridge ahead, to bark at his mind that Fury's abundant stash of secrets was one of the leading reasons they were in the mess that they were.

He looked desperately towards her.

And suddenly, he wasn't in 2014 anymore, his mind capable of delving across the few years he had been Captain America, from the 21st century to the 20th, with sickening ease.

He was back in Luxembourg, the ground covered in scorches, casings and corpses, the heart-rattling explosions of enemy fire erupting somewhere off to his left.

Fire burned ahead of him as it reduced a small farming town to ashes, burning his nose as they blew through the dry, arid wind. Screams buzzed around his ear like flies, the occasional shout of his teammates clearing through the fog briefly to wake his mind.

But all of it fell deaf to his ears as a small child with long curly locks and a dirty, tattered dress regarded him with those same helpless eyes, small hands clutching his dirty suit, caked blood mixing with the scarlet patches along his stomach.

 _Help me,_ they pleaded with him.

They were eyes that had been scorched by war, eyes of a soul that had grown up too fast, that was brutally matured at the half-buried tombstone of a loved one, hands covered in their blood.

He knew because those eyes stared back at him in the mirror every morning.

Bucky and Frenchie had chided him later at the prospect of Captain America blanking out, laughing with inebriated gumption that they had taken out at least 50 HYDRA soldiers within feet of their leader, the young Super Soldier from Brooklyn none the wiser.

They had joked, their frosted mugs tipping dangerously in their hands as they willed the fermented liquid to burn through the chaos they had just immersed themselves in, allow them some peaceful hours to sleep, that it had been a beautiful dame that had caught his attention.

Some hazard her a blonde with rose lips and a blue satin dress, others a brunette with a silk red dress that hugged all of the right curves. Dugan had quipped he would tell Peggy on him, Bucky reprimanding them with slurred words and a wide grin that if they didn't stop, Steve would turn as bright as the red on his suit.

Their howls of laughter erupted into the still night, none of them the wiser that it wasn't a beautiful dame that had caught his attention, but the horror of a small girl shining his own reflection back at himself.

Just like the young lady beside his was doing to him now.

But for that small girl in Luxembourg months ago- _decades ago_ , his brain corrected-he picked her up in his arms, ran blindly through enemy fire and deposited her with the rest of the retreating survivors of her town, a taller woman with similar hair thanking him in rough scratches of mixed German and French as she hugged the young child.

He couldn't do that for her now.

He couldn't do that for _himself_ now.

He was able to treat the young girl as a young girl.

He did not have that luxury now.

He needed a team.

He needed _his_ team.

But at the moment, he was stuck with a young lady who within the span of the next 2 minutes, needed to become a soldier.

Who needed to do just as Steve Rogers, stage performer, had done all those years ago and strap up, slide open that door on Howard Stark's plane, and jump.

And hopefully, somewhere along her mid-air flight, she could become a sister in arms for him, a teammate he could trust with the wellbeing of the thousands of innocent citizens traveling along that highway.

Trusting her with _his_ back would come later. Hopefully.

If the need did arise.

The tactician was roused from his calculations and strategies at movement beside him, eyes focusing back to the young lady as she held out her fingers to him, eyes conveying something her mouth wouldn't.

He counted her slender fingers. "6."

He turned back up to her, brow furrowing. "6 _what_?"

She pointed to the passenger door of the Chevy he was leaning on.

He turned slightly from where he was crouched, eyebrows scrunched as he tried to put together what she was trying to tell him.

He repeated it to himself. "6."

He turned back to her, confusion no doubt painted clear across his face.

She dipped one of her hands down to the ground and swished her index and middle finger back and forth.

 _Footsteps._

"6 footsteps? You mean there's 6 guys behind us?"

She nodded.

The tactician took the info greedily. "Do you know where they are in relation to each other?" he asked, hopefully.

She took her left hand and tapped two fingers against the door beside him, doing the same thing with her right just below the right review mirror above her, and then tapped two straight down the middle of the Chevy.

 _2 from the left, 2 from the right and 2 coming straight at them._

"Nice shield yah got here, Cap."

His head instinctively turned at the sound of Jenkin's voice, stomach simultaneously dropping at the implication.

They had his shield.

As if sitting in the middle of an open highway without his suit or Barton perched somewhere in the trees wasn't making him already feeling naked and vulnerable, now they had his only offensive and defensive weapon.

Aside from the assortment of knives and the 3 small hand guns tucked away in his LoBo still laying along the shoulder.

But for good measure, the tactician half of his mind supplied the fact that the kill squad was probably outfitted with something that could at least block a knife, let alone a bullet.

While the WW II tactician processed that new information, Steve Rogers turned back to the young lady, Captain America reminding now was a good time to let her in on what was about to happen.

"Excuse me for being blunt, but those men behind us aren't here to restrain. They're equipped to kill, on sight, no matter the circumstance," he started, gauging her facial reaction.

She nodded, eyes focused on him.

"They're prepared to take us at any cost, and if that means opening fire on all of the cars and people out here," he continued, gesturing to the slightly blocked lanes to their left and the crowds gathering along the bridge ahead of them, "they won't blink. We're the only ones here to keep them safe and get out of here without them on our tails. I can't contact my team."

She nodded again, eyes focused and listening.

The next words in his mouth hiccupped in his throat, caught off guard at the calm she was still settled in.

She wasn't getting scared, wasn't worried, wasn't even confused.

It was as if her mind was working in tandem with his, picking up the subtle and not so subtle hints he had interlaced into his words.

 _Us._

 _They're after us. They want to kill us. Not just him._

 _Us._

"If there's anything you can do, anything that'll help us, now would be the time," he finished, stuffing as much hope as he could into that one statement.

Her face visibly flinched, something close to understanding loosening her attentive eyes.

Something quieter than a breath slipped through her lips, and then her arms locking straight out behind her, letting her jacket slip off of her. Her hands were then working at the button on her shorts, the bottoms sliding just down to her knee and her left already working her t-shirt off before the realization of what she was doing hit Steve Rogers.

He looked, mortified, at the bustle of population around him, the amount of phones and curious eyes were trained on them and hastily tried to put his hands out to give her some decency.

"What're you…"

But his voice died off as she continued to de-robe, Steve Rogers ears turning a bright pink and eyes desperately trying to focus somewhere else, as she lay crouched in a sports bra and black underwear, her pile of Goodwill clothes now just a pile off to her right.

Then a slight whirring filled the air, the tactician noting it sounded slightly akin to the purring the Winter Soldier's metal arm would make when put under extreme duress and weight.

The tactician allowed Steve Rogers to watch with fascination, taking on the seriousness of the situation and the plans that now required adjustments, as the blue print lines appeared once again, glowing brightly this time against her porcelain skin and through the dyed cotton of her bra and shorts.

Captain American suddenly caught a small mass on her back. Closer observation revealed a metal contraption, stretching out to fit just between her two shoulder blades, the top and bottom about a hand width apart.

Steve Rogers noted the gorgeous cobalt and striking black that painted patterns along the gadget, unable to discern from his position what exactly those patterns were.

But suddenly, Captain America hiding beneath his civilian clothes, startled back as similarly colored plates began to shift out from the tech nestled along her back, inching out across her body and extremities, much like Tony's suit did.

In a matter of seconds, her body was covered in varying-sized plates of, predominantly blue, and black that molded tighter to her skin than Tony's rather bulky Iron Man suit.

He could feel his mouth fall slightly agape.

He gave a small nod in gesture to the suit. "So…can you— "

He was cut short with the backward jab of her elbows, black hand coverings falling away to more cobalt plates, shifting out and contorting to hollowed cylinders, black fists within scrunching up and igniting bright orange glow along the inner walls.

He couldn't believe it.

They were blasters.

She had been armed this entire time.

Mouth still slightly hanging, he gave a single nod. "Ok."

This explained too many things for Captain America to sift through, but for the time being, it answered the most important question.

She was powered.

But more importantly, she could fight.

This might actually work.

The tactician peered just below the bottom of the rear window, taking one last look at HYDRA personnel positions, civilian car locations in relation to the scene and the continuing traffic to his right just over the barrier.

He turned back to the young lady.

"Alright, here's the plan."

* * *

"Come on, Cap. Honestly, we're not even really interested in you. HYDRA have bigger fish to fry than a 100 year-old Brooklyn stage performer. Just hand over the girl, and we'll let you go running back to your Avengers, and let all the people out here go where ever they need to go, incident free. How does that sound?"

Gregory Jenkins wasn't expecting a reply.

He had studied the Avengers and their allies for far too long back in training to assume Captain America would even entertain the thought of handing over a young, innocent civilian.

Her age toyed too ruthlessly at his own surprising youth and her predicament pushed too hard at his own embedded sense of duty and morality for Steve Rogers to someone like her slide by.

But he didn't have time to tease at the leader of the Avengers in the middle of an open highway.

He needed to test subject back, pronto.

Orders from up top.

Right now, even HYDRA wasn't all that concerned with what happened to their century old nemesis.

The opportunity of blasting s bullet in his head certainty shouldn't be avoided.

But right now, they needed her back.

HYDRA had invested too much time and too many resources into this one brat to let it all fall by the wayside because of some righteous punk and his integrity.

They were too close to correcting their greatest weapon, currently pulling most of HYDRA's available squads on a wild goose chase.

They couldn't afford any more mistakes.

He strained his ears to pick up any noise of conversation between the two, but the rush of traffic just feet to his left was making it almost impossible.

He gave a pointed look to Solovak and Torino to his right and levered his middle and index fingers to the top side car, both furthering their grip along their…McTaggart and Collins on his left catching onto the shift in energy and followed suit.

No more screwing around.

Close both walls and terminate.

The soldier's shield was out of sight.

From the public point of view, it was just going to look like a getaway of a blond and a brunette gone wrong.

Nothing more.

Raising his own weapon to his face, right eye staring along its edge, fingers jack-knifed around the trigger, moving quickly and quietly along the heels of his feet.

The other side of the flipped Equinox slowly came into view, Jenkins spotting the small tuff of blond hair just below the bottom of the rear window.

But as he neared, structured forehead and thick eyebrows coming into view, followed by crystal blue eyes, the rare settling of dread crawled into HYDRA's stop strategists and agent.

Because when the Super Soldier's face came into view, Jenkins got a genuine, up close look at the daring, young punk from Brooklyn, Steve Roger's lips quirked in a tight smirk, one azure eye wide with glee, the other winking with mischief.

With a quick shoulder shove, he sent the top side Equinox skidding across the asphalt. Listening with satisfaction at the sound of two bodies hitting the ground, he turned in tandem with the young lady, standing behind her as she raised her blasters, gearing up with a sound slightly akin to the noise Bucky's arm seemed to make periodically.

He turned around in time to see the four HYDRA agents on their left and right raise their weapons, bafflement written clear across their faces, valiantly raise their guns for a final show of effort, but they were two late. An orange glow was already radiating around the end of the blaster and in seconds, both arms were fired twice, four dead straight shots to the chest sending all four former agents yards away, knocked out and on their asses.

They both sat there, letting their intermittent, heavy breaths fill the buzzing silence around them, air and hearts pumping with adrenaline, as she slowly levied her arms back to the ground, blasters transforming back to let her hands dangle freely.

He caught the glint of a familiar object beneath the hood of the Chevy. He walked over, and with no effort at all, pulled his shield out from underneath.

He turned back to the young lady, already catching the quiet horns of police cruisers in the distance. "I'm going to hog tie them for the police," he said, gesturing with his thumb to the downed agents, "See if you can salvage our packs. We'll have to leave the bike behind."

She gave a solid nod and ran to the LoBo.

He turned back to the two vehicles, both standard issue SHIELD convoys, wishing he could just grab its clutch, shift it into drive, and cruise his way up to Idaho.

But HYDRA was unfortunately meticulously efficient, and no doubt had multiple trackers on all of their equipment, meaning the plethora of artillery and weapons the Super Soldier stumbled upon rummaging inside the trunk weren't up for grabs either.

Even the pack of gum sitting idly in the open glove compartment risked the potential of leading HYDRA straight to him.

There was nothing here for him.

He grabbed at a roll of heavy duty rope from the back seat, Barton had shown the hidden location of during a recon mission months ago, dragging Jenkins and another agent by the feet along with him to the two to his left the young lady had immobilized. He dragged the last two to his pile and set about tying them up.

His ears picked up the sound of light footsteps and turned to watch her nip toward him, pushing the LoBo by the handlebars alongside her.

He turned up to her. "Is it salvageable?"

She responded by slipping her fingers over the throttle and revving the engine, a clean purr rustling the bike, exterior covered in a litany of scratches from its glide across the asphalt.

He nodded his head. "Good. Anything from the backpacks?"

It was her turn to nod, lifting up the bike seat to reveal two fairly unscathed SHIELD issue packs, bulky enough to look like they still housed all of their original contents.

Good.

The Strike team certainly set them back in their schedule, but it also gave them the opportunity to put some serious distance between themselves the southern part of the country without too much worry HYDRA was following them.

They had a small window of time to get as far as they could as fast as they could before reinforcements would track them down again.

He slipped his shield off of his forearm and slipped it beside the backpacks before closing up the bike compartment and sliding onto the seat.

He caught her subtly look back at her pile of clothes still sitting on the highway, as she, by force of habit, came and slipped in front of him along the bike seat.

His voice brought her eyes back to him. "Leave them," he said, slipping the brown leather jacket off of him and laying it over her shoulders, gently wrapping his hand around her arm and guiding them up to the sleeves, trying to convey what he wanted her to do.

She slowly caught on and looped her hands out the sleeves, the jacket easily covering the upper half of her body and some of her lower, leaving just some of the leg of her suit exposed.

He reached his hands back to the throttle. "It'll keep your suit hidden until we're settled down for the night. We'll get new clothes and transportation tomorrow anyway," he replied, before revving the engine and letting the LoBo take them down the exit and off the highway.

They still had 8 hours until midnight, about 6 hours of no sunlight, prime weather for runaways traveling out of watchful eyes.

Hopefully it was enough to get them out of Kentucky, out of the South, and closer to Sam.

* * *

He let a rush of hot air pour out through his nose, twisting the hotel key card absentmindedly by its corner, listening to the blended rush of hot water hitting porcelain coming from the bathroom, letting it drown out the noise that filtered with ease through the paper thin walls, so he could process.

The wad of folded maps sitting in front of him, blue rubber band stretching to its limits to keep them all together, a stark reminder of the hundreds of miles still to come.

At this rate, they weren't going to make it to Idaho until next spring.

If HYDRA didn't kill them first.

The 8 hours from Morgantown, Kentucky had carried them just about to the border of Kansas in Kansas City, Missouri.

It would take another 21 hours to get to Cobalt, if the two of them drove straight through, pending anymore interruptions.

But he didn't know which was worse; driving in plain sight for almost a day straight or stopping every 12 hours to eat, switch out clothes, bathe and sleep.

One kept them _off_ the road for too long, while the other kept them _on_ it for too long.

Both were risky decisions. But for now, he needed the rest and food their current schedule granted him. The wounds he sustained from Round 2 with the Winter Soldier had finally started to close up, the traces of bullet wounds and knife slices now just represented with aches and pains.

But they were enough to cause some annoyance throughout the day.

He should've told Sam to meet him somewhere closer.

Somewhere along the east coast would've been preferable.

But as much as he wanted his new partner with him, sending Sam on one of SHIELD's last secure flights to one of Nat's safe houses in Cobalt would at least reassure him that there was one less of his friends in danger.

Sam had been upright and steadfast throughout the entire process, always asking where he could help and never failing to give less than 110%. He was a loyal soldier, an incredible ally, and what Steve hoped he could call a friend.

Sam had made a tremendous sacrifice, and Steve would never forget it.

Sam had left the military lifestyle behind, retiring his suit and guns for comforting words and reassurances to his brothers and sisters in arms who were returning from chaos across the seas, only to find a greater threat waiting for them back at home; normality.

He had made peace with his partner's passing, subconsciously leaving behind the life of protocols, mission reports, chains of commands and the ever present teetering of balance over the blade of a knife.

Assimilation back into society takes time, and it seemed Sam had readjusted fairly well.

So when battle came knocking on his front door, literally, Steve could not have felt guiltier.

Why drag a soldier back into war after finally finding some semblance of peace?

But Sam volunteered so quickly, so fast Steve was tempted to reject and let him stay behind.

But they had needed him and his skills, and in those dark hazel eyes, Steve could see the Sam desperately needed them in return, like an addict needed a fix.

You could take the solider out of the fight, but never the fight out of the solider.

And Steve knew that all too well. It was the very reason he was not teaching art class somewhere in Brooklyn, living his days away in an apartment under an alias as he sometimes secretly dreamed he could.

So now, because Sam had followed him, listened to him and trusted him, he was staked out in a cabin in Idaho under one of Nat's many identities, no doubt a wanted man like himself if enough footage of his aerial stunts had been caught and uploaded.

And then in Cobalt, they would try and find Bucky.

Because if Nat's contacts and sources were reliable, the Winter Soldier hadn't reported back into HYDRA in weeks, since the incident. Meaning HYDRA would be as persistent as Steve was to get Bucky back.

Maybe not as desperate, but certainly more resourceful.

Even though he thoroughly raided that resource depot, he still was no match for the man power and ammunition resources backing HYDRA.

Zola had given him a surface glance at the depths of the rogue, Nazi science division. He had no idea how far its tentacles spread across the globe, and where exactly they were infiltrating.

For all he knew, they had been feeding every conflict and villain the Avengers themselves had come up against.

HYDRA was meticulous and patient, if anything, and Steve certainly wouldn't put it past them to somehow have been insinuating the daily schedule of the Avengers so that when they were ready to strike and take down their super solider nemesis, the Avengers team would've been fresh from a long string of over-zealous illegal arms dealers and terrorists that they needed a small reprieve, and split all across the world.

 _They're yah go being frickin' paranoid, punk. Stop worrying over every little thing. 'S probably why you can't get a girl._

Bucky had popped up sporadically in his head after the defrost, but ever since his unmasking in D.C., he was griping and chiding in Steve's head more frequently.

He knew he was being paranoid.

But the glances over his shoulder, the sweeps of department and grocery stores, the gut feelings that sometimes had the two runaways packing up their bags and heading off to another motel in a matter of minutes was what was keeping himself and the strange young lady alive.

So he indignantly stuck out his tongue to Bucky's voice and left it at that.

A voice in his head reminded him that he was still pushing off that whole…whatever she had done back out on the highway, that he was avoiding some issues of where, when, how and why that needed to be addressed.

Along with, possibly, her name.

It would be helpful.

But he couldn't right now.

He just sent a quick thanks to the big man upstairs for her being able to do what she did, and left it for another night.

Another night.

Wasn't that a pleasant thought.

Another night in a motel room too cheap for a proper cleaning staff or maintenance crew, yet expensive enough to have him crawling to an outdated resource depot for money.

Giving a once over the splashes of rust decorating the fridge and microwave in the kitchen, the massive wads of dusts that littered the floor, the curtain rod that looked like it belonged in a pool as a flotation device, the blood red wall that now had neon spray paint markings of bored teenagers and struggling artists, the sheets that held more holes than fabric, Steve suddenly wished with giddiness that he could send a picture to Tony, just to listen to the snarky response.

But he couldn't.

They had collected all of his belongings back at the hospital; his suit, his clothes underneath, whatever he had stuck in his pockets last minute at the underground bunker Fury had been holed up in, but most importantly his Stark phone, straight from the man himself.

Tony had had trust issues with SHIELD and its operations, the super solider chuckling at the face Stark was wearing when he'd turn on the TV to the latest news reel and find out he was dead right all along.

In light of his suspicions, Stark had created one-of-a-kind, rare "Stark-A phones" he had called them.

Similar to his StarkPhone out on the market, but designed specifically for the members of the Avengers Initiative.

Banner's, according to Stark, was indestructible, no matter which form he took on.

Thor's was protected against a bolt or two coursing through the lightening wielder.

Romanov and Barton's were highly adaptive for all of the international missions they participated in, and Steve's had step-by-step instructions for the operating and usage of the phone.

Because Stark to joy in continually reminding him of the fact he was a fish out of water in the 21st century.

And though Steve would take it to his grave, he really needed those over-simplified instructions sometimes.

But the most important feature; they were off the grid.

They operated off of Stark's private satellite somewhere in Earth's orbit, unbeknownst to NASA, keeping all of their activities and communications silent and impossible to track.

And the WW II tactician was really missing his right now.

His team would just be one call away, meeting at his location and suiting up.

Right now though, he was lucky if news of anything that had happened in the past few days had reached them.

He was confident that it had reached Tony by now, but he hoped that for his own safety, he was keeping Iron Man out of the skies for now.

He suddenly found his hand sneaking its way down to his stomach, rubbing absentmindedly at a throb he couldn't quite place, just a few inches up from his right hip.

He must've torn it sliding off of the bike while acting as a human shield for her.

He rubbed at the sweat that continued to trickle down the back of his neck.

The movement not only made him aware of his soaked t shirt, but it jarred his stomach again, and the pain seemed to ricochet like a sharp echo all across his stomach and chest, etching a sharp wince into his face.

The tactician rattling around in his mind suddenly took on Howard Stark's voice, the charismatic genius, his son too blinded with the past to accept he was a dead ringer for his old man, warning him of the dangers of allowing the serum to continue to pump throughout his cells without proper food and rest.

Food.

In hindsight, it sounded like a good idea.

The bruises and the battered bones were healing, but could be disappearing overnight if he had a solid 2 pizzas burning in his stomach. Even the packs of nuts and dried fruit they were able to salvage from their packs would be a solid improvement.

But the thought of food, for whatever reason, sent his mind reeling, and caused a bubbling in his stomach that burned his throat and tickled his gag reflex.

He was probably just too drained.

He could get like this sometimes, according to Banner.

After a grueling mission that had pushed over the 12-hour threshold, the team would naturally gather in Stark's massive kitchen for pizzas, Chinese, Thai, half of the stock from a bakery down the street and, by tradition, Sharwma.

Banner would rib him the following morning that he had been insufferable the night before, stiffly but politely rejecting the food, instead sulking like a burnt out toddler in an arm chair, too exhausted to eat but too hungry to simply conk out right where he was sitting.

It would usually take the combined efforts of Banner, reminding him of the side effects of letting the Super Soldier Serum burn through calories that weren't there, Stark, who would make some snarky comment about the Boy Scout being too good for commoner meals, Thor, who would somehow make it relate to a battle fought on some plain with some people, Barton, who would toss him a Gatorade bottle and make a cryptic remark about 'being there before' on some mission in a foreign city with a pointed look to his fellow assassin, and Natasha, who would fill up a plate for him and curl up along the arm of his chair and threaten him with hushed Russian phrases she somehow knew he understood.

So while his teammates voices argued against it, he made the decision that he would rest first.

His stomach would wake him up sometime during the night, and with a few hours of sleep in, he would probably have enough strength and hunger to do some damage to their food supply.

While Steve Rogers was already clocked out for the night, Captain America the tactician ran through his routinely mental checklist before checking out as well.

 _Door was locked, with a beer bottle from the recycling bin down the hall balanced perfectly on the knob._

 _Windows were locked._

 _Curtains were drawn._

 _She was still in the shower, had been for the past 9 minutes, so she'd be turning it off soon. She never showered for more than 13._

 _She had towels with her and one of his spare tees he had left on the sink for her to sleep in just for the night until they could hit Goodwill and restock on more clothes._

 _The depot food and snacks from their backpacks were spread out on the kitchen counter for her, not really knowing how much she needed to eat, if anything, after her…thing._

He shook his head of the thought. _That was too complex of a matter to dwell on then. Another problem for another day._

 _The first aid kit was open on the kitchen table if she needed it, but he had gotten a thorough look when she had…de-transformed and she didn't appear to be heavily injured. There were ice packs there if she wanted to relieve the bruises._

 _He had slipped two knives and .22 Magnum in the one drawer of his bedside table, another knife beneath the bed and a Glock 42 under his pillow. The rest of the weapons were laid out in the fridge._

 _A frequency transmitter was turned on and sitting idly in the sink, disrupting the frequencies of any bugs, cameras or chips hidden on them or in the room._

 _Their bags were sitting on both kitchen chairs, out of the way._

 _The spare cash he had collected from the depot was tucked away in a plastic bag, along with the keys to the LoBo, beneath a floorboard he wasn't all that surprised was loose._

With teeth clenched and his right arm held close to his stomach, he wearily lifted himself from the chair.

His knees and ankles buckled at the sudden shift in weight, and his stomach screamed back at him with waves of white, hot pain.

He sucked in a tight gulp of air and pushed forward, spotted vision locked dead ahead for the sweet release of the motel bed. All he had to do was lay down.

The world continued to tip and teeter as he painstakingly made his way through the fields of dust wads littering the creaky floorboards to the edge of the lumpy mattress, sending a different kind of pain in his chest at the close similarity between it and the one he had slept on growing up in Brooklyn, closest to the window.

His body collapsed.

There were sharp snaps of wood, a dull thud on the ground, and what felt like a knife dragging along his stomach.

But all of it fell numbly to his ears as his aching body and pleading metabolism collided with a crescendo, sending him into the quick release of a heavy darkness.


End file.
